Dark tulip
by sunnylovestoby
Summary: Sheriarty. Flow of ideas, associations, maybe it doesn't make sense to anyone but me. Rated M for some violence and minor suggestive adult themes. If you decide to read it, I hope you'll enjoy it.


There was a time in a dark, dark place in a dark, dark times and you know, these kind of things just happen. Even if you're totally boring, let alone if you're not that ordinary. And Sherlock never was one of a crowd.

So when he found in a post a tulip, which predicted future with his colour, he was just a little bit more excited then he was supposed to be. Jim was glad, that Sexy liked his idea. It was pleasure to watch his pet, how he's smelling the dark tulip again and again as if it was a drug. He had a reason for the behavior, because he knew, that the tulip wasn't just a flower, it wasn't a gift, it was an invitation. Come and play, Sherlock, but today in a little different way than ussual. Rouge, the colour was significant – a clue.

When Sherlock was thinking about it, his bones were blazing and the stomach was spastically clutching. He was so afraid and so amused by Moriarty in the same time, he nearly believed, that he isn't shure about his reply to the invitation.

Please come. I need you. - SH

There was sudden flash of metal and then darkness and blackness. But soon it become better, the impenetrable dark became plaid of velvet and the stifling air of anticipation became whiff of fresh sensed danger. Something gonna happen, thought Sherlock, something **new**. And he couldn't wait.

''Oh my,'' said a sinister voice,''Here you are. My best distraction.'' Sherlock opened his eyes for no reason, there wasn't even a sign of light. There wasn't anything but the voice, commanding and arrogant like nobody's else. Not a single cell of James Moriarty was same as normal human being's ones. He was so unique, that it was captivating - at least for Sherlock.

''What we gonna do tonight, my dear?'' It sounded softly.

''I don't know,'' said the detective hoarsely, smirking. ''Do **you** have and idea?''

''Oh yeah, well – sort of. I bet you'll love it, darling. It's just – so me, my favorite kind of entertainment. May I try?''

''Oh, please.'' Through that it sounded acerbic, they both knew, that it wasn't quite feigned.

Bright light filled the room and Sherlock finally saw a personified sin, his arch-enemy and the inferior himself all in one spawn of hell.

''I was thinking... You might be supposed to beg.'' After a moment of silence followed Sherly's grin.

''Start...'' said Moriarty quietly, only so that thereafter he could to yell: ''NOW!'' His pet sadly lowered his gaze and sighed.

''Am I just like you?'' What have I become? Is there anything, which distant me from him?

''Oh, you're so disobedient, Sherly. I've just said that you'll start to beg. This isn't what I was asking you for,'' said Moriarty and Sherlock suddenly felt a touch of a knife on his nape. ''Be obedient pet.''

The question was: Who will be the dominant one? Sherlock Holmes or Jim Moriarty? Both sides were balanced – more or less.

''Oh, look at you, my dear. Aren't you just gorgeous? Lovely blushing Sherlock. But you already know that this is not enough. But we're getting somewhere. Well, somewhere deeper.'' And a smirk brightened his face.

''I think I have finally encountered my equal,'' said Moriarty and in his voice Sherlock heard something very human. James was as lost as he was, his cold heart was fine, but his bursting brain needed something – someone. All the ordinary people with their banal thoughts and boring reactions weren't enough. Moriarty held detective's head in hands with delight, while Sherlock asked: ''So you're basically saying, that I am **not** your pet?''

''Oh dear,'' laughed Jim. ''Why you still come to me, Sherlock? Tell me, I'm really curious.'' Through that it sounded sarcastically, Sherlock toke a deep breath and started talking, silently, but with passion: ''I guess, it's because of the boiling excitement, when we play. When I do things just for you and on your command. And the pathetic sentiment, when you care about my wounds. It's ridiculous, because we both know, that all my wounds are self-inflicted. I'm still returning, because I can't stop thinking about the brightness in your eyes, when you're charring my flesh.'' And he sighed slightly, because he suspected, that Jim would find his answer very dull.

But when he looked up, Moriarty's face was imbued with the loveliest smile and Sherlock blushed because of it. He didn't do it wrong and James praised him. ''Very good, my dear. That was better than I expected.'' And then leaned closer to his ear and whispered: ''Of course you are my pet. Do not ever forget that I adore you.'' The possessive tone gave his words a new sense.

And in the gathering darkness Sherlock accepted something that he so long resisted. And he kneeled in front of his Nemesis and a brand new feeling engulfed him, when Moriarty nuzzled his hair and murmured: ''Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm here. For you, my dear.''

,,There's something wrong with me. I'm too much similar to you, Jim. Something in my head,'' said Sherlock hollowly, ''says me, that I'm not ok.'' The reason, why Moriarty is obsessed with him, the only reason - for all adoration and joyful exclamations – is egocentrism. Both of them were always captivated by the other one, because they were alike. Sherlock got many plans, murders so perfect, that nobody could solve them. Jim made his dreams, but also his nightmares, come true. He was his inner self, the darker, the braver, the more perverse.

The question still was there. Who should be the dominant one? Sherlock fought all his life against these tendencies. And this incredibly dangerous, cheeky criminal was helping him with the fight. Sherlock closed his eyes, toke a deep breath and finally surrendered.

''Sherly,'' purred a deep voice above him. He would miss the game, therefore Jim would miss it too. Sherlock toke Jim by his shirt collar and whispered with his cruelest tone: ''Stay away from me.'' Moriarty smirked in answer.

Crime tape and their natural environment. Sherlock couldn't help himself, but smiling, while he was studying victim's blood. ''Nice one, I suppose,'' he said accidentally and John just raised his eyebrows and murmured something about Sherlock's remarkable inhumanity. Where is the line between a genius and a madman? Can something justify your actions? Detective cunningly switched to kind, lovable tone: ''I have to go now, John. Maybe I'll be away for a while, so don't worry.''


End file.
